


It Hasn't

by StrikerStiles



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Both povs bc why not, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Getting Together, Introspection, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani is an Incurable Romantic, M/M, Pining, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:47:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25593022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrikerStiles/pseuds/StrikerStiles
Summary: "Now that they started talking, he finds a thousand questions lurking in his mind. Some of them are very mundane, some too familiar to ask a stranger. He shouldn't ask any of them. But it won't matter, in the end. They will be both dead once comes dawn, maybe even before that. Knowing the shape of his mouth when he smiles or some of his secrets won't matter. Swords are heavier than both."or Niccolo asks the enemy a simple question.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 72
Kudos: 572





	1. Have you ever been in love?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carpelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carpelia/gifts).



> "-Have you ever been in love?  
> +Once  
> -How did it end?  
> +It hasn't" part is taken from The Get Down. It's a marvelous show and the fact that it was cancelled is an affront to art. I just think it fits these two so well.
> 
> edit: check the amazing art by leeizzy out [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27593707/chapters/69451518)!

The night is black, blacker than the insides of his eyelids while he lay dead for God knows how long. Now his eyes are open but the darkness remains. Little stars, impossibly bright, pockmark the darkness. Niccolò feels bone tired, heartsick, empty. His foe, his tormentor, his victim, his murderer, his...his _companion_ in this blessing and curse sits across from him, a respectable distance between their bloody forms. Their blood is mixed on both their clothes yet their bodies do not touch unless it is to take lives. He stares at his sword for a while, reflecting the sky on one tiny place where the blood did not touch it.

They died, and rose again, a thousand times already. They will do it again as soon as something changes. For now, the silence keeps them spell bound, fixed, sheltered. Something will change, sooner or later; a stray arrow or the sound of bells, or maybe the call for prayers.

Ten thousand men must have fallen at the walls of Jerusalem before them and he cannot remember most of their names. Time is so jealous of memory. And when this ends, if it can end at all, will he be remembered?

He steals a glimpse of the man sitting across from him and finds him watching him back. For a second his heart pounds, feeling like a child caught in a room he wasn't suppose to be, touching something he's not suppose to touch. _He might remember_ , he thinks. He would remember the man, no doubt. They stared at each other for so long, stolen moments between death and blood, he must remember Niccolò's face as well as he remembers his own. It's quite absurd, how some things fall into place like that. A stranger will live to remember him, and he doesn't even know his name.

The roof of his mouth feels sticky, gone too long without water, but he manages to work the words out somehow. "What is your name?"

Their language is quite odd on his tongue. He learned it mostly to communicate with his brethren on the Holy Land but his teachers weren't really particular about the pronunciations. A line appears between the stranger's eyebrows, as if surprised.

"You speak our language?"

"Not well."

"Words are words," the stranger says. His voice is quite soothing, Niccolò thinks, when it's not carrying threats or japes.

"And your name?" he tries again.

"Yusuf." His fingers are tracing patterns on the hilt of his own sword, curved and wickedly sharp. Niccolò knows that sword better than the man himself, he held it very close, felt it on his skin and inside his body. "Why did you ask?"

He shrugs. His tabard is heavier with the blood it soaked, sticking to his armor. It was white at first, he thinks. It's been so long. "We have some time," he says. Better than saying _I might not be as brave as I thought, at the start._ Better than getting up and fighting again.

"Do you happen to have a name, then?," says the stranger- _Yusuf, his name is Yusuf_. It feels like a mistake, knowing his name. Names make people. Ending a nameless enemy's life is easier. Knowing a name forces him to acknowledge some things he's been trying very hard not to. If he has a name, someone should've given it to him. Someone who cared. Someone who might be waiting for his return, somewhere. Niccolò never been a cruel man. He wants to see the Holy Land but he wouldn't enjoy causing a mother grief. _Sancta Maria, forgive us for your son and the sons we keep taking_. "Are you awake?"

Niccolò startles, remembers they were having a conversation, if you can call it that. He hesitates for a second. He is not sure he's ready to be a person again, not a soldier. Yusuf's eyes are almost soft in this light, as if he can see his mind, his secret thoughts. As if he is as tired as he feels. "Niccolò," he manages in the end. "My name is Niccolò."

"You have an interesting accent, Niccolò," Yusuf says and now his voice is a little softer too. Tiniest of curves adorns the edge of his mouth.

"I assume you would have that, too, if we were speaking my language," he says, a little defensive.

"I assume you are right."

They stay silent for a moment, listening to the sounds of the night.

"Do you-" Niccolò starts, then realises that's not the right tense. "Have you," he starts again, under Yusuf's amused gaze, "died before? I mean, before here, before-"

"You?"

He nods.

"No. It happened here for the first time."

"Do you wonder why?"

"At this moment? Not really." There is blood on his face. It appears almost black in this light, as if half of his face is gone. It's a kind face, he catches himself thinking. Wonders if the blood is his own. "At the moment I only think when it will start again."

Niccolò sighs at the reminder. "We have some time, still. Death held us many times before. It can wait a little."

This time, Yusuf actually smiles. Though his eyes are weary, and the sword he's holding is deadly, the smile itself is... _charming._ Seeing it makes him feel like he earned something.

Now that they started talking, he finds a thousand questions lurking in his mind. Some of them are very mundane, some too familiar to ask a stranger. He shouldn't ask any of them. But it won't matter, in the end. They will be both dead once comes dawn, maybe even before that. Knowing the shape of his mouth when he smiles or some of his secrets won't matter. Swords are heavier than both.

"Have you ever been in love?" he asks, as fast as he can with his tongue tripping around the unfamiliar sounds. He wants to ask how it felt, if the answer is yes. He never had that, never will. It never bothered him before but now, knowing the taste of death, he can't help but wonder about all the feelings that were denied to him.

Yusuf's face is suddenly unreadable, devoid of any softness. He looks as well guarded as the city itself, as unknowable as its treasures. Niccolò lowers his eyes back to the blade of his sword, growing colder by the second on his knees. Something in him refuses to settle.

"Once."

He looks up so fast the sword jolts and he manages to catch it at the last second. He can feel his face grow warm and hopes the filth on it will hide the color from Yusuf's eyes. The movement was embarrassing enough.

He is torn between two questions but in the end, his curiosity regarding the man wins over his curiosity regarding himself. "How did it end?"

He is so focused on Yusuf, even in the darkness he catches the way his throat moves. The throat he slit more than once. It was almost fascinating in a sickening way, the color of the blood, the thinness of the skin there, the realization how fragile humans truly are. It's even more fascinating, the way it moves when it's whole and untouched. He knows he touched it, though. There are no marks of him left but they've been there before. It feels right, for some reason.

"It hasn't."

Suddenly, his skin is unbearably hot under the layers of cloth and metal. He can't hold Yusuf's gaze, can't look at his blade, can't bear the light of the stars. The whole world is too much. He hastily gets up, his fingers tremoring on the hilt of his sword.

Yusuf watches him, face still unreadable, breathing calm. "Is it time?"

Half of him wants to run. Half of him wants blood. He's a fool. Undeserving of his title, undeserving of the blessing bestowed on him, undeserving of his brothers' trust. _Undeserving of a smile_ , whispers a traitorous voice, _undeserving of a name._

His throat is painfully dry. He wants some water and a moment of solace and to be away from here. He nods.

Yusuf lets out a sound, too flat to be a sigh, too silent to be anything else. He gets up, brushes away the dust and the dirt from his clothes.

"It was lovely," he says, before raising his sword. In that angle it catches the starlight, illuminates his face in a way that makes something in Niccolò ache. He raises his own in answer and together they prove him right. They are both dead before dawn.

He wakes up under the first light of the new day and there is no sign of Yusuf apart from the blood he left on the ground. There are no marks of him on Niccolò's skin but he knows they've been there, like he knows Yusuf have been there. He'll be back, no doubt.

It's not over. Not yet.

****

The cottage is drafty, especially in the nights. They are curled up close to the small hearth, a respectable distance between them still. It chafes at him in a way it didn't before, lately.

"Want to tell me a story?" Yusuf asks. The flames are dancing in his eyes. He doesn't look at Niccolò as much as he used to. He catches him sometimes, when he thinks Niccolò is too busy to see. That chafes at him as well. It's almost like the closer they get, Yusuf gets more and more elusive, more complicated, more hidden. Not knowing why is hard but asking would be harder.

"Not tonight."

Yusuf nods without taking his eyes away from the fire. "Care to give me an answer, then?"

He chews on his lip for a second. Yusuf asked him all kinds of questions: about the place he grew up in, about his family, his beliefs, his education, his language, about concepts familiar and alien, about feelings that are as tangible as stone or as elusive as the morning mist. Hard and easy ones. He never knows which kind he'll get. He doesn't know if he can handle a hard one at the moment. But sometimes Yusuf buries himself in silence. Doesn't speak to him, doesn't look at him. And that would be worse. Even the hardest question is better than not having his voice, his gaze.

“Sure.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

They've been drinking tea just a second ago yet suddenly his throat is as dry as it has been when he went nearly a day without water. His fingers are tremoring again, and this time his sword is too far away to be gripped. He laces his fingers together instead.

It would be easy to evade the question, offer half truths and semantics. But even though he wasn't as brave as he thought he was at the start, he is still no coward.

“Once,” he whispers.

The fire cracks and Yusuf looks at him, hesitant. Almost as if he's afraid of scaring him.

“How did it end?”

Something is trying to crawl out of his chest, or at least it feels like it. It feels even more dangerous than talking to the enemy or seeing a sword coming for his neck. But that brought them here. It has to mean something. None of this- the cottage, the fire, the sense of _belonging_ \- would exist had he ran away from that feeling.

He slowly lets his breath out. Forces himself to look Yusuf in the eye, his magical eyes with the flames dancing in them. The same eyes that held him alive and dead, in rage and in serenity. The same eyes he saw brilliant with the spark of fighting or dull, devoid of life. He is already in too deep. One lie won't save him.

“It hasn't.”

Yusuf lets out a little sound, like he's wounded, like it hurt. And Niccolò can't take it anymore. He is up before he is aware, closes the small distance between them and holds Yusuf's face with trembling hands. His foe, his tormentor, his victim, his murderer, his companion in this blessing and curse, his friend _, the man he loves_ stares back at him. He manages to take a single breath before Niccolò bends down and kisses him right on his mouth. After their blood and lives and deaths, their breaths mix together at last.

Niccolò accidentally bites him on his lip and there is blood but Yusuf just laughs, a startled, delighted sound, and kisses him again.

In the morning, there are no marks of him on Yusuf's skin but he knows they've been there and as he traces a pattern in the palm of Yusuf's hand, that feeling in him finally settles.


	2. Once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf's side of the story

The night is dark, bejeweled with a million stars looking over him, them. It's beautiful, he thinks. They are more visible here with no other light to outshine theirs, nothing else to be looked upon. He would like to lie on his back and watch them until dawn, trying to remember a thousand lines of poetry singing their praises. He doesn't have time for it, unfortunately. He has company.

The man has a very distinctive face. Yusuf would've remembered it even if he haven't rose again after falling victim to his sword. The longest glimpses he managed to catch of him have all been right before one of them died, the lines of that face tense or twisted by a grimace. He gets to look now, though. It's dark, but even the stars seem partial to this face. His mouth is set into a tense line but his brow is unmarred. The color of his eyes he can't see in this light but their immense depth remains. It's a harsh face, all sharp angles and clean lines. His hair looks darker than before, probably because of the blood. A good portion of it must be his own, he realises. It's quite a weird feeling each time, this little jolt that both excites and disturbs. Respect for an opponent who fights well is an expected and praised thing yet Yusuf knows in his soul that this feeling is not that. Something about the man fascinates him in the way their elusive lovers thrilled the great poets. Is this what they call love? This too great feeling that drowns him, that burns him and freezes him at the same time; it has to have a name. He steals a glimpse and his beloved murderer is still, silent. They have time. He sorts through the lines he can remember, holds the feeling inside himself to it like a master tailor would hold his father's fabric to the sun. Some match, some don't. Poets love comparing love to burning, to dying and being reborn. His beloved made him feel all of that, in a more literal sense than he doubts these poets could ever possibly experience. He thinks back to the time when the man stabbed him right under his ribs, touched his heart with the tip of his sword. He remembers him standing over him as he lay dying, his eyes bright and full of things that Yusuf cannot find names for. He remembers waking again, searching for him, wanting to be held by his eyes again.

"What is your name?"

This is the first thing Yusuf ever heard coming from the man. He is a silent one. Efficient. Cold, some might say, if they don't bother looking into his eyes. Yusuf never had that option. Maybe he was always meant to burn.

“You speak our language?”

He knows his language. It feels like a blessing and a curse. The words sing a different melody than they usually would, on his tongue. Yusuf wonders for a second what language he grew up talking. If it also has a secret music that reveals itself only to those who dedicate their lives to it. If the man ever thought about that.

“Not well.”

It might be a trick of his own mind but he almost sounds embarrassed and he feels this odd urge to soothe him.

“Words are words.”

“And your name?”

“Yusuf.” He traces patterns on the hilt of his sword, restless. There is something dangerous in this little conversation they are having. The man must be aware as well. “Why did you ask?”

The man shrugs, the metal of his armor catches the light for a breath, illuminates the pale, thin skin under his chin. Yusuf can almost remember burying a dagger right there, after the the man slashed at his throat and made his vision go dark. “We have some time.”

“Do you happen to have a name, then?” he asks, even though it's probably a very bad idea. But he wants to know. He should be entitled to knowing his tormentor's name. Bastard, he called him until now, when he was angry, and Beloved in rare moments of peace, like poets call the thieves of their hearts, when they fail to even offer a name as compensation. None of them fits to all the things this man is to him. Maybe his own name would. He can have that, if nothing else. The way it makes his lips move, instead of a kiss.

The man is silent. He seems in an entirely different realm, eyes focused on some unseen shape in the distance. Yusuf considers allowing him this little respite, but his curiosity wins. It always does. “Are you awake?”

He startles, his frantic eyes focusing back on to Yusuf's own. They are a pale color, usually starkly bright but appears cloudy in this light. Or maybe that's the shadow of his thoughts. For a second Yusuf thinks he won't get an answer but in the end he gets to hear that raspy voice again. “Niccolò," he says, like he's unsure. “My name is Niccolò.”

"You have an interesting accent, Niccolò,” he says and regrets it immediately, yet his mouth curves before he can stop it. He shouldn't joke around with the man. They are not friends. Yusuf can kill him a thousand times, can die by his hand a thousand times, can paint the man with a thousand words but they can never, ever be friends. Wishing that is even more foolish than wishing anything else.

"I assume you would have that, too, if we were speaking my language," Niccolò says. His brow is a little furrowed. Hearing that makes Yusuf's treacherous mind come up with a thousand new possibilities. What would Niccolò sound like, speaking words that are familiar in his mouth? What would he himself sound like, speaking that language? Can there be a word in it that would fit this feeling inside him, ever growing and conquering new parts of Yusuf's soul every single day? Which one would they speak in, had they both known both and had ample time to do nothing but talk to each other? Would their sounds compliment each other's, like their swords do?

He doesn't say any of this, of course. He just says “I assume you're right.”

Then, there is the silence of the night. Layl, his people call it. He always liked that word, as far as he can remember. There is a certain secret beauty to it, a beauty that belongs to something guarded, something well hidden.

Niccolò, he decides, is quite like that word.

“Do you-” Niccolò starts and then stops abruptly. Yusuf watches his lips tighten slightly for a moment, then he continues, haltingly, “Have you died before?” Ah, the tenses, then. Of course. The way his tongue trips over the sounds is unexpectedly endearing. “I mean, before here, before-”

“You?” he offers.

A simple nod.

“No. It happened here for the first time.”

“Do you wonder why?”

“At this moment? Not really. At the moment I only think when it will start again.”

_There is a time for thinking,_ his father used to say to his little son who was so fond of dreaming of lands far away, of creatures of the old, of things unknown and unseen, _and a time for doing. If you think when you need to do, you will stagnate. If you do when you need to think, you will end up unhappy for it._ And Yusuf might be born a dreamer and stupidly, blindingly in love, but he's no fool. He knows their story is not one where he can throw his sword to the ground and offer himself a sacrifice to the eternal flames of love. If they will die, they will die together with each other's blood on their hands. This too, holds a certain beauty in Yusuf's opinion. They might be strangers but they know things about each other not even the closest confidant may know. He knows the exact shade of Niccolò's blood, the way his hands twitch right before his last breath leaves his body, the way his face looks in the grasp of death. Even death is partial to him, it seems. Yusuf never thought love something absurd, when hearing or reading of it, yet living it makes it into something outrageous. It transforms even the most mundane of things. Makes what is cold fascinating, what hurts exhilarating, what taunts, haunting. It's nonsensical. Unbearable.

What would his father say now, he wonders. _If you love when you need to hate, you will perish_?

“We have some time still,” Niccolò says after a sigh. “Death held us many times before. It can wait a little.”

Yusuf can't help but smile at the defiance he hears in those words.

“Have you ever been in love?”

This catches him completely off guard.

He thinks back to the time when love was only something he's seen through others' eyes. When the ache in his heart was only made of words, when the face that appeared in his mind belonged to nothing and no one in particular, just a shade, an echo. How he yearned for love, back then. How he wanted to be held captive by a pair of eyes, a few soft words. Maybe he is a fool, after all. Do lions dream of eating out of someone's palm? Do roses dream of losing their thorns? Mountains, of being soft and pliable? The sky, of being conquered?

Niccolò isn't looking at him. That's what gives him the courage.

“Once.”

Niccolò's gaze returns to him and he almost drops his sword. Yusuf wonders what surprised him this much. Did he think his enemies incapable of love?

“How did it end?”

He forces himself into swallowing in the hopes that it will bring some moisture to his parched throat. He feels heavy under Niccolò's intent gaze, wishes he could know what he sees when he's looking at him like that. Does he know how his eyes force Yusuf into this confession?

“It hasn't.”

Niccolò rises to his feet so fast it renders him unable to move for a moment. He just watches Niccolò's face, color high on his cheekbones. The way his fingers closes around the hilt of his sword. The way he rests his weight on one foot then the other. Forces himself into breathing slowly, deeply.

“Is it time?” he ask.

A simple nod, again.

His breath escapes his chest in a sound that is half disappointment, half anticipation. He gets up, brushes himself down. He doesn't know why he still bothers. There is not one single clean thread left on him. His mother would be so upset, if she could see.

Well, the way he keeps dying and reawaking would upset her more than that, probably, come to think of it. It's rather odd how fast he grew accustomed to it.

“It was lovely,” he says, because it was. Beauty must be cherished, wherever it can be found.

Niccolò doesn't answer, but he didn't expect him to. He knows how it goes by now. A time to think and a time to act.

Their time has ran out again.

After yet another resurrection, he sits up and looks at Niccolò's still lifeless form. He never looks peaceful, there is no mistaking death for sleep. His eyes are open, their color dull without the spark of life. Blood ruins the tender bow of his mouth. Yusuf looks his fill while he can and yearns for a time when he would be allowed to look upon Niccolò while he's alive, when there is color in his face and air in his lungs. What color would his eyes be, under the secret light that is only shared by lovers? How would he move, if he was allowed to be soft?

He looks wrong like this, almost like something desecrated. After a while his heart grows too heavy and he just turns his back. “There will be time,” he whispers, a farewell, then he's gone.

***

Now that there is no cover of the night or the blood, Yusuf finds looking at him unbearable.

It seems a bit cruel, how precisely his prayers have been answered. He wanted to look and now he can, but when he's alive, Niccolò looks back. That would be fine apart from how Yusuf loves him. Niccolò doesn't, he thinks but he can't be sure. He did agree to run away with Yusuf, leaded him into a strange country, into a strange little house filled with strange paintings and strange flowers in lawn. It must mean something because people do not do things like that for no reason but whenever he tries to understand that reason, Niccolò eludes him, turns into something that can be marveled at but can't be held. The two of them has this silent language they use more than any other yet when it comes to understanding Niccolò, that language becomes the most inadequate one there ever was. The poets never mentioned this part, the after. They never composed lines telling him what to do with his hands when he is allowed to not kill anymore but not to hold. They never provided guidance for living with a man who lets you call him by his name but keeps his heart hidden all the same.

He stares into the flames and misses hearing Niccolò's voice.

“Want to tell me a story?”

“Not tonight.”

He nods. Niccolò told him many stories, of the house he grew up in, of his Church and its saints, of traveling and dreaming. Yusuf can almost always tell when he will agree to share one and when he will decline, but could not tell how, if someone asked. That bothers him. He wants to know more of Niccolò. Wants to know some of his secrets, the way he would look unguarded, how it would feel to touch him without hurting. “Care to give me an answer, then?”

“Sure.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

Niccolò clasps his hands together, pulls his shoulders in. He looks oddly fragile, suddenly. Like he's not the deadly man who killed Yusuf a thousand times but someone who needs to be protected. And Yusuf wants to be gentle, but love is also a jealous, demanding thing. About that, at least, he's been warned.

The answer comes in a whisper. “Once.”

The fire cracks and Yusuf can't help but look at him. His gaze always finds Niccolò somehow, like a moth to the flame. Even the flames are not as captivating as he looks with the soft light dancing on his face.

“How did it end?” _Tell me,_ he adds silently, _if we ran out of time yet again._

Niccolò looks conflicted for a moment and Yusuf wonders if his next words will be the truth or lies, if he gives an answer at all.

“It hasn't.”

It's almost a physical pain, like his heart constricts in his chest. He's been alone for so long, alone in this love, alone in not knowing and not daring to hope. He still can't believe he's allowed to have this. Allowed to have him-

Suddenly, Niccolò is right there. He cups Yusuf's face and for one single moment they look at each other, their whole beings laid bare at last, and it flays Yusuf alive. He draws a breath with great difficulty and before he can make his mind provide some words worthy of this moment, Niccolò presses his lips to his.

After that, Yusuf knows nothing but Niccolò's hands on his face and his lips on his own, until Niccolò's teeth catch his lip. The pain is a brief sharp burst and he tastes blood, metallic and terrible but it feels like a reminder. They are both alive despite their best efforts, they are here, and he's allowed to have this. _They_ are allowed to have this. Yusuf laughs at the joy of it, at the worry line between Niccolò's eyebrows, at the version of himself who read a thousand poems but could never imagine this feeling, and kisses him again.

A bird call wakes him right before dawn and he watches Niccolò in sleep, with color in his face and air in his lungs. At that moment he's glad he never got to see this before because had he seen it before he was allowed to hold him, before Niccolò was his, it would certainly kill him.

As if he heard his thoughts, Niccolò's eyes blink open and under this secret light that is only shared by lovers, they are the color of the endless sea, of a naked sword, of home.


End file.
